Beyond the Quiet Face

Images of ghosts fly behind my eyes I shudder sometimes it's cold here below the belly of warm eyes. If you could would you transcend? Slip in between the day to day and stop time in your mind to look at me? Beyond the quiet face into the underlay meshwork of elements paradox, uncertainty, childlike hope entangled with a personal universe. Would you look closer? Intrigued? Interested? Or brush your fingertips across the weblike strands to see which hum against your energy? There's an internal waterfall pulling everything down. It slows me. Would you taste from it? Or walk away hurriedly afraid of getting wet, afraid to drown? I wish I could open up my palms like a book the pages would be tissue paper thin. It would be called layers and it would tell the story of the way we paper mache our souls and put overlays around our intentions. I would rip at it one page at a time and read every word to you before throwing them into the fire. Sometimes statements are really questions they barely whisper their meaning in a look in the eye or the tremor of a voice. How can we we know somebody else when we barely know ourselves.